"This is very jolly, Peter; but it is a pity that there are bars to
the window."

When they came down to dinner they found that Rhoda, quite done up
with her journey, had gone to bed.

"You like your room, I hope, nephews," Miss Scudamore said, after they
had taken their seats.

"Yes, aunt, very much. There is only one drawback to it."

"What is that, Thomas?"

"Oh, please, aunt, don't call me Thomas; it is a dreadful name; it is
almost as bad as Tommy. Please call me Tom. I am always called Tom by
every one."

"I am not fond of these nicknames," Miss Scudamore said. "There is a
flippancy about them of which I do not approve."

"Yes, aunt, in nicknames; but Tom is not a nickname; it is only a
short way of speaking. We never hear of a man being called Thomas,
unless he is a footman or an archbishop, or something of that sort."

"What do you mean by archbishop?" Miss Scudamore asked severely.

"Well, aunt, I was going to say footman, and then I thought of Thomas
a Becket; and there was Thomas the Rhymer. I have heard of him, but
I never read any of his rhymes. I wonder why they did not call them